


nothing gold can stay

by pied_pollo



Series: Nothing Gold Can Stay [8]
Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: A lot - Freeform, Arrest, Car Accidents, Character Study, Confusion, Episode: s01e20 Like Father ..., Gen, Head Trips, Here are all the ways Malcolm dies, Homicidal Thoughts, I KILL MALCOLM MULTIPLE TIMES, Introspection, It’s allllll an illusion, Lots of that, Malcolm “L’Oréal” Bright, Murder, Subconscious, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide, Temporary Character Death, That Bit in the Trailer Where Malcolm Is Standing On the Roof, and because you are too!, as in, because he’s worth it, heeeeeat of the moment, ish?, it’s very complicated, so much murder, stabby knife, stabby pen, stabby teacup, this is just very trippy in general, yes there is suicide please be warned!!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-11
Updated: 2020-12-11
Packaged: 2021-03-10 19:35:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,966
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28012518
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pied_pollo/pseuds/pied_pollo
Summary: He needs to figure out how he got to this point, and he needs to do it alone.
Series: Nothing Gold Can Stay [8]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1824919
Comments: 10
Kudos: 19





	nothing gold can stay

_He can’t think because he’s thinking too much. He’s running and running and running and running and his feet pound hard against the concrete stairs, echoes bouncing off the wall as he makes his way upwards, the air gets colder as he keeps moving, somewhere, anywhere, it doesn’t matter, because all he’s focused on is getting out of this place._

* * *

Blood is smeared on the coffee table, staining the rug, running down Endicott’s throat in sickening rivulets and puddling under his quickly cooling body, and it’s everywhere. It’s everywhere.

Everywhere except for him.

The irony is almost laughable.

Ainsley hadn’t been so lucky. Malcolm watches the knife slip from her hand and bounce off the carpet with a soft thud, and as it does, Ainsley stares at the man she just murdered, not yet grasping the severity of what she just did. Malcolm can see the moment her demeanor shifts and the realization flashes in her eyes.

Her voice is barely above a whisper. “What just happened?”

A long time ago, Malcolm stood in this very room, neck cold from where a comforting hand had squeezed gently like an anchor. He can remember it almost clearer than he can remember yesterday—muted voices, flashing lights and sirens. A small green candy in his palm.

In the present, Malcolm stutters out an “It’s okay, Ainsley,” and takes a step forward, with a gun in his hand as opposed to a green hard candy; footsteps avoiding the blood instead of searching for signs of it. Ainsley, however, seems unchanged; frozen in that moment, with the same look in her eyes—except this time, they are also dull and cracked, more damaged than scared. 

Maybe he should have seen this coming.

Ainsley’s head drifts up to face him, mouth open but silent, and Malcolm starts to reach for her if only to hide his face from that expression, but before he can, he gets a phone call.

_“Malcolm, my boy,”_ Martin Whitly chirps on the other end of the line, _“it’s Dad! How’s it going?”_

Malcolm finds himself admitting, “Not great.” If he focuses, he can hear the sounds of chaos on Martin’s end—probably something the man himself has caused.

_“Well, don’t worry about me,”_ Martin purrs, as if to confirm Malcolm’s suspicions. _“Things are looking up! I took Ainsley’s advice.”_

Ainsley’s advice. Malcolm thinks back to the prison: his father, fearful; his sister, firm. The latter’s grip on the former’s wrist. Pride in Martin Whitly’s eyes, and a malice reflected in Ainsley’s.

_He’s not a killer._

_He’s a Whitly._

So is she.

“And she took yours,” Malcolm breathes.

There’s a moment of pause as Martin processes the information. _“Really?”_ But it doesn’t last long. _“My_ girl!”

Malcolm hears the line go dead as he lowers his arm, unable to stop staring at his sister, who is now starting to shake as her limbs frantically attempt to do something about the body on the floor.

It only takes two seconds for her to go still again.

Malcolm furrows his brow as Ainsley’s tense posture relaxes; she looks almost impatient as she wipes the blood from her palms onto her pants, smearing it badly. Her shoes are kicked off into a corner of the room and she rolls up her sleeves.

“What are you doing?” Malcolm murmurs.

Ainsley gets to her knees and her hands flutter over Endicott’s body, not quite touching him. She lifts her gaze and her face is impassive as she explains, “Getting rid of the evidence.”

Malcolm shakes his head slowly. “What? No.” He’s starting to get the feeling that he’s speaking to himself. “That’s not...that’s not what happened.”

Ainsley sits back on her heels, hands on her knees. Blood is still gushing from Endicott despite him being dead; thick pools of it lap at the toes of Malcolm’s shoes like tidal waves. He looks down and the beige carpet is now a dark crimson.

_“Well?”_ Ainsley presses. She gets to her feet and takes a long stride forward, arms dangling at her sides. The bloody rug squelches as she steps. “What happened, Malcolm?”

“I don’t…” Malcolm starts to say, then just shakes his head. “What is this? I was just…”

_You said Sophie Sanders wasn’t the only Girl in the Box._

_WHO DID YOU HELP ME MURDER?_

_If what you think is true...is true._

_Because we’re the same. And because I need to find out who I am._

“I was just at Claremont,” Malcolm mutters, placing the gun on the couch. “I was...talking to my father. No—I—what?” He thinks for a moment. “I was...this already happened.”

“So why can’t you remember?”

That isn’t Ainsley’s voice—in fact, Malcolm blinks and she’s gone. So who’s talking?

“You seem to be asking yourself that a lot this past year,” Malcolm remarks.

Malcolm brings his hand to his mouth. He didn’t say that.

But Malcolm did. 

He knows what’s going on now.

“You’re my subconscious,” the real Malcolm says, hanging his head. He almost smiles, glancing over to the grinning doppelgänger that leans on the dresser. “Long time, no see.”

Subconscious Malcolm gives a little wave and walks towards him. The blood parts for him, making clean spots to put his feet on like stepping stones. “If I remember correctly,” he muses, “the last time you and I met, you were high off exploding drugs in the shower, and I was dressed as dear old Dad to give you some advice.”

“This is more than just a shoebox,” Malcolm points out weakly, gesturing to the carnage around them.

His subconscious tilts his head slightly, nodding. “Well, same concept, isn’t it? You and me? Chatting it up about the good old days?”

“I know what I did.”

“But do you know what you did _after?”_

Malcolm hesitates, and his subconscious gives a nod.

“You always were good at hiding,” he continues, sounding vaguely condescending. “Hiding from yourself. From the memories. Are you losing time?” Malcolm nods. “I thought so.”

“Of course you do,” Malcolm reminds him, “you’re in my head.”

“Not quite.”

Malcolm turns around—when had the figment vanished? The room is empty, save for the continuously gushing blood spurting from Endicott’s body. It’s up to the ankles, now.

“Try _behind_ your head,” his subconscious corrects him.

Before he can twist again, Malcolm feels someone grab a fistful of hair from the back of his head, jerking his skull back until his throat is exposed to the ceiling. The sticky blade of his mother’s used letter opener rests cold against his jugular.

If he focuses, the soft breaths of cold wind blow against his cheek.

“I’m on the roof,” Malcolm breathes to the ceiling. “How did I get there?”

“We’re not there just yet,” his subconscious replies coolly.

“Why am I _here?”_

In response, the knife slides across his carotid in a swift motion.

Malcolm isn’t sure whether he dies from bleeding out from the wound in his neck or from simply drowning in Endicott’s blood. It’s metallic taste stays even long after the rest of his senses have disappeared.

* * *

_And it’s still there, the taste, from blood that is or isn’t his, and it’s drying cold down the front of his shirt, cracking between his fingers, cramped fingers; he gives them an experimental wiggle to ease the stiffness caused by compressions and punching the wall. His hands are steady, and he digs the heels of his palms into his eyes, smearing blood on his face._

* * *

When they come back, Malcolm is sitting on the edge of his bed, restraints loosely buckled around his wrists. He flicks them off with a smooth, practiced motion and takes a few steps forward, wondering why the loft feels wrong.

A chirp: Sunshine is frantically clawing at her cage, the telltale sign that someone is there, but Malcolm ignores her—to be honest, there’s the steadily increasing concern that _he’s_ the intruder.

“Hello?” he calls, unsure of who he’s speaking to.

Sunshine flits past him; her door having been opened somehow, and Malcolm watches her settle on the edge of the couch, where a boy’s head is barely visible, peeking over the top.

“How old are you?” Malcolm ventures.

“That depends,” the figure replies, with a voice Malcolm can recognize as his own but still feels unsure about in terms of age. “What do you want to say?”

Malcolm creeps forward, taking slow steps as he puts a hand on the back of the couch and moves to stand facing his companion.

“You chose this path,” his college self says by way of greeting.

Malcolm takes a seat beside him. “What is this?”

“It’s not Martin’s doing, if that helps.”

“Please. It’s always him.”

“Well, yes,” his subsconscious admits, with a small shrug. He crosses one leg over the other, bouncing a steel-barrel pen over his knee. “If you’re going to go back, you might as well start with me.”

“What do you want?” Malcolm asks, starting to feel drained of the head trip. “Are you here to tell me about myself? Tell me what to do? The _truth?”_

The younger man holds his hands up like he’s surrendering, pen clamped between two fingers. “Hold up, Bright. Don’t shoot the messenger.” He drops his arms. “My job here is to ask you what led to this point.”

“What point?” Malcolm demands. “Where am I, right now? In the real world?”

“On the roof.”

Malcolm rolls his eyes. “So how do I get back?”

“Why a profiler?” his subconscious asks, dodging the question. He settles back into the couch. “You weren’t always so keen to fight crime.”

The way he says it sends a ripple down Malcolm’s spine, and he looks down. “Gil, the team, the job...it’s where I belong,” he answers. “It’s all I know.”

“Not _all_ you know.”

“Is there a point to this?”

“There is, and you know it.” College Malcolm leans forward to rest his elbows on his knees, the weight of his sentences lightened by the easy, charismatic smile dancing across his cheeks. “I want to know who young Malcolm Bright wanted to be. Then, we can figure all this out.”

“I—” Malcolm starts to say, then his voice catches in his throat and he chooses to close his eyes, steadying the tremor in his hands. “I wanted…”

His younger self is unfazed. “I’m sorry, what was that?”

“I wanted to—”

“Say it softer, so that no one can understand you, _Bright—”_

Malcolm holds his hand up, and very, very quietly says, “I wanted to be a doctor.”

A few beats pass before his subconscious speaks again, gently. “And what changed that? Besides Martin Whitly?”

“I don’t know,” Malcolm admits, shaking his head at the floor. He thinks for a moment. “Maybe I just found what I loved. Maybe I was desperate to prove myself.”

“Maybe you didn’t think you could help people that way.”

“Well, the last thing the world needed was Dr. Whitly, Electric Boogaloo,” Malcolm points out bitterly.

College him remains unfazed. “What is it about other people that drives you away?” he ponders. “Living people?” He scoots forward in his seat. “You spent your days hunting down monsters. You didn’t need to worry about saving lives—at least, not directly. Not like a doctor. Do you just not trust yourself with that?”

Malcolm drops his head. “I dunno.” He takes in a deep breath, slightly surprised when it comes out as a shaky, watery exhale. “Maybe I just didn’t think I’d be good.”

“How so?”

“I didn’t want to have control over someone’s life.”

“And?” his subconscious prompts, more eager to get to the point than concerned now.

Malcolm just shrugs. “And I guess I thought I would break them. That I’d break everyone.” He laughs a little, wiping his eyes. “Can’t break someone who’s already broken, right? It’s hard to fix a spree killer. Hard to bring the dead back to life.”

“Hard to restart the car,” the younger him adds, getting to his feet. “Hard to un-swallow the pills, take back the words. To undo the damage with only bleach and a rag.”

Malcolm gets to his feet as well. “What do I do?”

His subconscious crosses his arms. “What _did_ you do?”

“I…” He tries to think, he really does, but all he gets is Ainsley’s bloodied face and running up the concrete stairs. “I don’t know.”

“Then maybe you should mull that over. In fact,” the figment adds, taking a step forward, “I believe that thinking _very_ deeply will do you a _load_ of good.”

Malcolm blinks and can’t reopen his eyes.

He always imagined, after that day, what it would have felt like if he had stabbed Martin with the pencil, or if Martin dug the screw into his brain. 

Now he doesn’t have to wonder, but this time there is no eye of the needle when it comes to a steel-barrel pen to the frontal lobe.

* * *

_He breaks the surface and stumbles into the cold night, temperature dipping and flooding his senses with alertness. There’s still a disorganization to his thoughts, though, and he keeps his hands on his face because there are suddenly bright lights assaulting his vision; a pair of blinding spotlights that could just be the nighttime creatures of New York spurring to life; skyscrapers blink white and yellow and red and blue and purple._

* * *

A kaleidoscope of colors makes coming back to himself difficult. Malcolm blinks a few times before feeling that he’s tucked against a comfortable car seat, the belt strapped across his chest. The vehicle is moving; Malcolm thinks for a panicked moment that he’s back in his father’s station wagon, but there’s a song humming over the radio, and the seat warmer is on, and Malcolm lets himself melt into the very un-smashed LeMans.

_Operator, well could you help me place this call?_

_See, the number on the matchbook is old and faded_

“So you joined the feds,” someone says to his left. Malcolm turns to see Gil, head forward to focus on the road in front of them. He’s younger, from the years just before Jackie’s death, and his beard lacks the salt-and-pepper color Malcolm has gotten used to. “You joined the feds, made an ass out of everyone, and very promptly got thrown out.”

Malcolm sinks back against the seat. “You make it sound as if I wasn’t there for eight years.”

_She’s living in L.A. with my best old ex-friend, Ray_

_A guy she said she knew well and sometimes hated_

“Either way,” the not-quite-Gil replies with a dismissive gesture, “you landed at my door with no job and a hell of a book of dinner stories.”

“Don’t forget the daddy issues,” Dani calls. Malcolm has to twist in order to see her and JT, sitting in the back seat, and he almost smiles at them before remembering that none of this is real.

“Not to mention the multiple nutcases you were packing on your own,” JT chimes in. He smirks. “Gil did call you an ‘acquired taste’.”

_Isn’t that the way they say it goes? Well, let’s forget all that_

_And give me the number if you can find it, so I can call just to tell them—_

The radio shuts off. Malcolm turns back to Gil, who is now parked in the middle of a very empty street, looking solemn behind his sunglasses. It feels darker outside.

“Your father tried to kill you,” he says, and then, quieter, he adds, “and later, you tried to kill yourself. When did this happen?”

Malcolm sucks in a breath, and the car doesn’t seem as cozy anymore. “After Jackie died,” he replies softly, turning to face the window. “When I took a break from work and stayed here in New York.”

“But you lived. How many times did you almost die after that moment?”

He has to think about this. “...Over ten.”

“That’s one way to say it,” Dani agrees, her tone light but her eyes hard.

Meanwhile, JT is stoic as ever. “You put us through the _shit,_ you know that?” he scoffs. “Man, you put _yourself_ through it even more. Now, I might be a figment of your subconscious, but anyone could guess that the whole near-death thing ain’t just a kink of yours.”

“But we’re getting ahead of ourselves,” Gil interrupts, raising his hand to quiet the team. It works, and he forces Malcolm to look at him by cupping his neck with a broad hand.

He doesn’t speak for a moment, and the Dani part of his subconscious notices, because she says for him, “What’s going through your mind when you put yourself in danger? Don’t you think of us? How we’d _feel_ if you—?” She closes her eyes and drops her head for a moment, taking in a slow breathe—inhale, exhale—before lifting her gaze again. Her eyes are red. “Do you even care?”

Malcolm barely suppresses a bitter chuckle, because _God,_ isn’t that the funny part? Of _course_ he cares. He cares more than anything, maybe cares _too_ much. And he tries, tries to be okay, to be _just fine_ for them, he really does. But it’s hard, and sometimes the syringe in his wrist or the gun to his head is tempting enough to feel like maybe the caring and the trying isn’t enough.

“What were you going to say to me,” Dani pushes, “before the bomb?”

Gil moves his hand from Malcolm’s neck to his shoulder, rubbing in circles as he adds, “Because it wasn’t about the case.”

“Why didn’t you say it?”

“And why wasn’t it ‘goodbye’?”

Malcolm just stares at them, unsure of what to say (again). The radio plays on its own accord, rising in volume as a truck honks in the distance.

_—I’m fine and to show_

_I’ve overcome the blow, I’ve learned to take it well_

“Because I survive,” he manages to work out. He doesn’t know why he’s crying. “Because I always survive.”

“There’s that narcissism,” JT mutters.

“No,” Malcolm argues, shaking his head. The truck horn is louder, growing closer. “No. I...there’s no point in saying goodbye. Not if I know I’m going to live.

“But you don’t know,” Gil counters, “and you are _desperate_ to say goodbye.” He shakes Malcolm a little as he speaks, enunciating his words. “There might come a time when you need to say it, and you need to trust that we’ll understand. So what are you going to do before and after you get on that roof?”

_I only wished my words could just convince myself that it just wasn’t real_

_But that’s not the way it feels_

Malcolm only has time to grab Gil’s hand before he notices the semi trick in their rearview mirror screech to a stop a moment too late. Glass flies and metal crunches, sharp and screeching in his ears, but just before Malcolm slams his head on the dashboard, he realizes with fleeting relief that no one else is in the car with him.

* * *

_Words. So many words that he doesn’t know what’s being said and what’s being thought. His hands are shaking so badly now; the still moment has been quick, and he realizes he’s dropped something with a hefty clatter on the concrete. He bends down and finds a bloody knife in his hand, but it’s not the one his sister used. Or is it? He’s trying to piece together the blank spots between the then and the now, but he’s coming up empty, and maybe, he begins to think, that’s a good thing._

* * *

His knees are to his chest when he blinks, but he isn’t on the ground. His legs are painfully, awkwardly bent underneath a small plastic table, and he sits on a small plastic chair. In front of him is a little china plate. Across from him is a ten-year-old Ainsley, humming to herself as she dances around with a miniature teapot.

“I thought we were going forwards,” Malcolm says to her.

Ainsley pauses in her singing and sets the teapot on the table before crossing her arms. “I’m important, too. What do you think was going on while you were in the FBI?”

Malcolm frowns. “You were eighteen when I joined.”

And eighteen Ainsley becomes, wearing the same frilly gown her younger self had just donned. She pours him a cup of tea and sits across from him, sliding a clay angel across the table.

“Why didn’t you see it coming?” she demands, but her voice isn’t cold, it’s light and playful, as if they were playing pretend. Distantly, Malcolm knows they are. “You were too wrapped up in being scared of yourself that you didn’t realize that it was me you needed to worry about.”

“I’m not scared of you,” Malcolm implores, unsure of whether or not he should be, based on how things have been going so far. “You’re not like this.”

“Like _that?”_ Ainsley clarifies, turning her head to point at the floor, where Endicott’s dead body lies. He isn’t bleeding anymore; the blood has vanished, as if his corpse was a prop, lying on the polished hardwood with gruesome lacerations in his throat and chest.

Malcolm turns back to her. “Tell me what I did.”

“You mean, what _we_ did,” Ainsley corrects him. She frowns. “Everyone thought you were the smart one.”

“But I _am_ the smart one.”

Ainsley giggles, shaking her head. “Dad always said we’d do amazing things if we put our heads together. Guess he got his wish, right?”

Malcolm is starting to understand what happened. “Did we hide his body?”

“Not exactly,” Ainsley replies vaguely, getting to her feet. She crouches beside Endicott, tilting her head as she examines him. “If you were to look at this crime scene, what would you say? From an unbiased perspective?”

Malcolm gets to his feet, teacup still in his hand, and squats down as well, taking in the scene. Almost at once, the blood comes back, but it has dried. Endicott is roughly one hour dead. “I’d say that this was a crime of passion.”

It becomes easy to speak, now, as he focuses himself on the case, and Ainsley takes a step back, brushing her hair away from her face and tying it back into a ponytail. She no longer wears the dress, but white scrubs, like a crime scene cleaner.

“He exsanguinated from severing the carotid artery,” he goes on, tracing the mark with a hand that now dons a blue nitrile glove. “The knife went from ear to ear, so he suffocated. Lots of suffering. But the killer attacked him from behind.” He stands up, moving to the original blood spatter, and holds out his hands like he’s framing a photo. “This shows trust. Or a blitz attack. We know the front door was locked and the alarm was off, so the killer is familiar with the home.”

“Your murderer kept killing even after Endicott’s throat was slashed,” Ainsley points out.

“Their emotions overwhelmed them,” Malcolm answers. “Like...temporary insanity.”

“Or a sadistic thrill,” Ainsley adds mischievously.

But Malcolm shakes his head. “The depth of the wounds suggest frantic stabbing. In and out, multiple times, with a knife belonging to the homeowner. Not premeditated. Opportunistic.”

“Self defense?”

“Not with the throat. Not including the fact that the victim is the only one with wounds.”

“Physical wounds, at least.”

“That won’t fly in court.” Malcolm steps over Endicott’s body and takes it in from a different angle. “The profile says that this killer knows how to kill, but it’s their first kill. They’re smart, and cold, and efficient...but then something overtakes them. The simple act of silencing their victim has turned into a potential lifetime of trauma or anger, resulting in the overkill.”

“So it’s personal,” Ainsley deduces.

“They’re run fingerprints on the murder weapon, if they find it,” Malcolm continues. “They’ll interview everyone in contact with Endicott and especially everyone in this home. They’ll know.”

“We could stage an assassin,” Ainsley proposes.

“An assassin would have shot him, or poisoned him,” Malcolm argues, getting to his knees. “No, the best thing we can do is temporary insanity. Or a psychotic break.”

“So,” Ainsley says, clapping her hands together, “which one of us is going to fake it?”

There’s a knock on the front door, frantic and banging.

“The insanity defense is not a get-out-of-jail-free card,” Malcolm says. “And even then, it rarely sells in court.”

“Unless it’s real.”

Malcolm thinks about this. “Unless it’s real.”

Another pounding on the door. Ainsley steps in front of it to block Malcolm’s view.

“The Surgeon’s son,” she declares, tone monotonous, like she was reporting. “It’s in his blood after all. You are your father’s son.”

“What about you?” Malcolm breathes, unsure of where this vision is going to climax.

Ainsley raises her eyebrows. “I was just in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

The teacup shatters in his hold, and the glass falls down until Malcolm is holding a single, jagged shard. He closes his eyes and waits for the moment, but pauses, because just as the door bursts open, Ainsley takes his hands and brings the shard of glass into her own stomach.

* * *

_He looks down and sees that there are red dots on his stomach, shaking slightly. Snow is starting to fall, and when he moves, a blaring voice tells him to stay where he is. He’s under arrest for the murder of Nicholas Endicott, Eddie Larson, Sophie Sanders, and the attempted murder of Ainsley Whitly. He needs to put his hands up now, but he doesn’t. Instead, he takes a step forward and looks out at the city lights._

* * *

It’s hard to tell where he is.

Malcolm tries to see through the darkness and reaches to the side. His hand brushes rock. There’s a stream of light coming from a barred window high above his head, and when he looks to the side, he sees another cell wall. This is a cage in a room that’s familiar.

Shackles are on his wrists. A belt clips them to his stomach. Orange pants greet him when he looks down.

Malcolm squints in the darkness and sees his father.

“Why did you kill all those people?” he asks, voice low and echoey. There’s no other sound, no music, except for his voice and the steady clinking of chains.

Malcolm finds himself replying, “I’m not sure I know the answer.”

* * *

_Familiar faces are on either side, telling him to get on his knees. Telling him it isn’t real, even though he doesn’t know which reality they’re referring to. Telling him they’re sorry they have to do this. He doesn’t know what it is just yet, but the ledge of the building is slightly slippery as he raises himself up to a shaky standing position. Snow catches the light and below, there is nothing but darkness. The voices say he doesn’t have to do this, but he does, because caring and trying and trusting are just a facade to delay him from this moment, and whether he’s thinking about the going insane or the murder, he’s not sure._

_He throws his arms out and the wind billows his unbuttoned coat out like a cape, but he’s not flying. He doesn’t even want to attempt to. Somehow, he got from the living room to the front door to the fire escape to the roof, and is this even his own?_

_Someone tells him to figure it out._

_Someone tells him he’s under arrest._

_Someone tells him it isn’t real, he’s having a psychotic break._

_Someone tells him he killed Endicott and then tried to kill Ainsley and killed an officer and ran to the roof._

_Someone tells him to raise his hands and get on his knees or they’ll shoot._

_Someone asks him what happened._

_Malcolm pauses at this and thinks hard. The red dots on his chest move upward, but don’t shoot. The voices have stopped and all he hears is wind. One by one, the skyscraper lights start to blink out, until all there is is a dark, dead city below him and the bright gleam of flashlights above—not even. He looks up and the light is coming from the clouds. No helicopter._

_Someone calls his name, and he doesn’t know who, because out of nowhere, Sunshine flutters onto his wrist and perches there, twittering and holding on, even as his hand shakes, because she doesn’t mind his tremor._

_He wants to hold on, too._

_So he does. He will. He can do this, whatever ‘this’ is._

_Malcolm pitches himself off the ledge and doesn’t say goodbye._

He doesn’t feel himself hit the ground, because as soon as he felt himself falling forward, Malcolm shoots open his eyes and finds himself standing in the living room. Across from him, Ainsley is covered in blood, and the knife drops to the floor. Her eyes are wide and her voice is shaky.

“What just happened?”

Malcolm works out an, “It’s okay, Ainsley,” and tries to make himself believe it, but then finds that he doesn’t have to force himself this time.

It _will_ be okay. Even if the worst occurs, Ainsley will be okay. _Malcolm_ will be okay too, he knows, because he’s always okay. He’s gotten good at being okay, and he’s still unsure whether or not that’s a good thing, whether or not he cares about it, whether or not he wants to be like that anymore, but there’s time for that. There’s always time for that.

They can figure it out together.

In his hand, the phone rings. Malcolm hits answer and decides that whatever happens next, he’s going to try, and maybe that’s enough after all.

**Author's Note:**

> Woot woot!!!!! It’s finally done!!!!!
> 
> This was such a fun fun fun fun series. What started off as a ploy to kill Sunshine in June brought me to this crazy ending. My writing changed a LOT as the months went on (for the better, I hope!) and I’m super thankful to everyone who read this, whether it was just one part or the entire thing.
> 
> This was really fun, and I’m sorry for killing Malcolm so much, but I hope you enjoyed reading as much as I enjoyed writing, however weird this was. Heck, I don’t even know if this piece made sense at all, but here’s to hoping.
> 
> Thanks as always. :)


End file.
